Hashtag Romance
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: A collection of scenes in a life. A good life, lived together. Molly and Sherlock find domestic bliss... Some of the time... Post S4, drabbles. All originally posted on tumblr, not set in chronological order. Enjoy!
1. BumRap

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#BumRap**

* * *

You," Sherlock slurs gleefully, "are obsessed with my bottom."

"Am I, now?"

And Molly Hooper grins at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Watching him sway lightly in the (very mild) summer breeze. It's 10.30 at night and she has just answered her doorbell, only to see John Watson and Greg Lestrade pelting their way from her door, leaving Sherlock leaning against her porch like a rather stiff log.

 _At least_ , she muses, _this probably means that Mycroft's stag do went well._

Their car is tearing away in a plume of dust, leaving one (apparently very drunken) Consulting Detective in her custody and grinning at her goofily.

When she makes no move to let him in his brows pull together, a pout forming.

"Aren't you going to let me in?" he asks. "You can't stare at my bottom if you don't let me in."

Despite herself, something wicked occurs to Molly. She bites the inside of her cheek and leans into him. Her tone is conspiratorial.

"But if I do _that_ ," she points out sensibly, "then when you come inside, you'll sit down, and then I won't be able to stare at your bottom, now will I?"

Sherlock's frown darkens as he considers this. "That's true," he allows. "And I suppose if your obsession with my bum is getting me through the door, then hiding it against a sofa is of no use to you: Maybe I should just promise not to sit down..?"

Inspiration clearly hits and his eyes light up.

"Or maybe I should let you get a good enough look _now_ , so that you won't mind when I come inside and you can't see it anymore!"

And- _unbelievably_ \- he actually starts undoing the buttons of his trousers.

Molly's forced to cover her mouth with her hand, lest a truly ego-destroying peal of laughter escape.

Taking this as encouragement- _though God knows how_ \- Sherlock shoots her what he clearly believes is a sultry grin and turns on his heel, humming something which sounds suspiciously like _What's New, Pussycat?_ under his breath and shaking his hips. This causes his arse to bounce back and forth in time to the rhythm.

 _It's completely ridiculous and yet strangely hypnoticc._

For a moment she stares, caught, indeed, by the sight of a part of his anatomy that she has thought rather a great deal about- But before Shakin' Sherlock can work his full magic on her a sliver of bare pale flesh peeks out from below his waistline. Turns out he's started to pull down his trousers, presumably so she can get a better look at his rear end.

With a hiss- "Sherlock!"- she grabs him and yanks him inside, causing him to grin at her in triumph as he leans back against her hall wall.

"You see?" he crows. "You _do_ like my bottom!"

Molly opens her mouth to contradict him, but at the last moment thinks better of it.

 _He does, after all, have a point._

"Go in there," she points to her sitting room. "I'll make you some coffee- And for God's sake, keep your trousers on."

He nods contentedly in agreement, shuffling in through the door and throwing himself melodramatically onto her sofa. Letting out a huff of breath.

He grins at her and blows her a kiss as she closes the door.

By the time she comes back with his coffee he's already facedown and snoring, his cheek pressed into her sofa cushions. His shoes slipped off, sock-clad feet tucked against the chair's armrests. But- presumably for her benefit- he's pulled down his trousers and underpants and has arranged himself so that his bare bum is visible, no matter where in the room one might be sitting...

Molly can't decide whether to be touched or mortified so she settles for something in between: She takes a photo of the sight before her and sends it to Mrs Hudson. Then Anthea. Then Sally Donovan.

Finally, after a moment's thought, she sends it to Mummy Holmes.

* * *

For weeks after, everyone will keep grinning at Sherlock whenever Molly comes around and not knowing why will drive him bloody insane...


	2. BlokeCode

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#BlokeCode**

* * *

"Sorry, what was that?"

And John Watson grins at his best friend. Watches in amusement as said best friend's sharp, irritatingly super-modelessque cheekbones turn a spectacular shade of red.

On the other end of Sherlock's phone, he can hear Molly Hooper giggling.

Sherlock turns from him, lowering his voice and saying something inaudible to his Not A Girlfriend before hanging up his phone. Nodding to John and setting out at a brisk pace towards Baker Street's front steps, head held high, eyes straight ahead.

It doesn't matter though: John knows what he heard.

He heard Sherlock Holmes call Molly Hooper, "honeybee."

More specifically, he heard Sherlock Holmes call Molly Hooper _his_ "honeybee," and then saw him grin when she answered him.

Johns best friend, the most unromantic, irritating, emotionally incompetent git in London, called his girlfriend by a pet name, and John- as his best friend- is honour bound to slag the crap out of him for as long as he can before Sherlock walks off in a huff and refuses to talk to him. (Perhaps even longer).

 _Failure to do so would be a clear breach of the Bloke Code, and who knows where that would lead?_

So, bearing that in mind, he sets out after Sherlock. _If he understood correctly, Molly's already at 221B, waiting or them._ Given his longer, lankier legs the detective has managed to get quite a bit ahead of him in the brief moments when John was grinning to himself. Watson is forced to take the steps of 221B two at a time to catch up with him, grinning demonically all the while; by the time Sherlock's opened the front door he already has about a dozen smart arse questions to ask and he can't even decide which one to go for first-

Before he can say any of them however, Sherlock seems to come to a decision, for he stops. Straightens his shoulders. He turns back to John and blocks his way up the stairs, his expression oddly... mulish.

Red can still be discerned along his cheeks and the back of his neck.

"John," he says sharply, and when Watson glances at him with glee he sighs. Rolls his eyes and then crosses his arms over his chest.

"Fine then," he says. "Get it out of your system. Come on, let me have it. Better you do it out here than in front of Molly; she's a nervous wreck about that nickname as it is."

John frowns, surprised. "Why's Molly a nervous wreck?" he asks, somewhat against his better judgement.

Sherlock rolls his eyes again.

"Some of her more idiotic co-workers have been gossiping about her," he says testily. "Something along the lines of "I'm grateful and nothing more," or "I'm just looking for someone to break me in and then I'll leave her in the dust."" He grimaces. "Actual quote, that," he says sourly, before adding, a "Bloody Meena," for good measure.

"That being the case," he continues, "I have bee endeavouring to make Molly more comfortable with our relationship- And more confident." He shrugs. "I had thought that a new pet name might help with that, hence-"

He gestures grandly with his hand, rather than say the dreaded, _honeybee_.

He cocks an eyebrow at his best friend as he does so, as if daring him to raise an objection.

"So this is for Molly?" John asks.

He nods. _"Of course_ it's for Molly," he snaps. "Why ever the hell else would I say something like that?"

Watson narrows his eyes. "And we're having this conversation because you don't want her upset?"

Sherlock nods, but something moves through his expression. Something unsure. Something vulnerable. It occurs to John, rather suddenly, that whatever his friend's feelings or ability to articulate them, he's got it bad when it comes to his pathologist.

John remembers how that feels.

"She will face enough censure for her choice," Sherlock says stiffly. "I will not have her made uncomfortable in my home, as well- Is that clear?"

For a moment John is tempted to dig his heels in, but at the last minute he decides not to. _Can't tease a man about being a git for years_ , he muses, _and then tease him when he doesn't behave like one, now can you?_

"I'm going to slag you about this from a height," he tells Sherlock. " But not now, and not in front of Molly- You have my word on that." He smiles. "I'm really rather fond of her, you know."

The detective inclines his head sharply. "I would expect nothing less, especially considering how lucky we both know I am to have her."

And with that he turns on his heel and heads straight upstairs, John grinning behind him. The back of his neck is still noticeably red. When they enter 221B Molly's already waiting, making something that smells amazingly edible for the kitchen of Baker Street. She lights up when she lays eyes on Sherlock.

She's wearing a new pendant around her neck, a small gold charm shaped like a honeybee, but though John notices he says not a thing.


	3. TheThing

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#TheThing**

* * *

Molly Hooper keeps doing This Thing, which Sherlock finds odious, and tedious, and annoying.

She keeps doing it though she should know better, and she should certainly have more sense, and Sherlock is convinced she must have been told off about it before, and told not to do it.

But, nevertheless, every time she comes over to Baker Street for a night of take away and crap telly, she still manages to do The Thing, which Sherlock finds entirely baffling and completely annoying, and not at all welcome, no matter what John says.

You see, after a couple of glasses of wine and a full meal, Molly Hooper has taken to falling asleep on Sherlock's couch.

No, not merely on Sherlock's couch: She has taken to falling asleep on Sherlock's _person_.

 _And, seasoned man of the world that he is, Sherlock hasn't the slightest idea what to do about it._

It always starts innocuously enough: She curls up on the sofa, her little feet tucked in under her and her shoulder leaning on his. Over the course of the evening some other part of her, usually her hip or back, will also find its way into contact with Sherlock's body.(The weight and warmth of this is usually pleasant and will thus lure him into a false sense of security).

From there it's merely a hop, skip and a jump to her nodding off, usually by laying her head on Sherlock's shoulder, sometimes by leaning her entire body on him. Once, she even ended up with her feet in his lap before she fell asleep (and yes, that had originally been his idea, but he didn't think she'd take such advantage of it! He didn't think she'd end up using him for a bloody pillow!

He also didn't think he'd end up finding it so easy to warm his hands against her pale little toes as he worked through his emails, but that's neither here nor there).

Most nights she gets so comfortable- and Sherlock finds it so difficult to bring himself to wake her- that he just wraps her in a blanket, picks her up and puts her in his bed. She always smiles when he does that, and says his name in her sleep. _This causes the most ridiculous... fluttering sensation in his belly_. He tucks her in and lets her slumber, leaving him to suffer a long, lonely night on the couch as Molly sleeps a mere few feet away and he tries to work out what the devil has gotten into him-

He has asked John about it on more than one occasion, but the bloody git just grins at him and won't explain a word, which is typical.

Mrs. Hudson likewise grins at him, and then starts blathering on about her younger days and her first husband, which is no help at all.

So he stops asking. Sometimes he goes up to John's old room to sleep, but it's freezing, and musty, and not nearly as nice as his is (and besides, it's the oddest thing, but he finds being near Molly more pleasant than being in a bed. He finds the thought that she trusts him enough to have him nearby really rather... pleasant.)

And so he lets her slumber. Keeps his peace about it. Keeps his eye on her.

She's his friend, he tells himself, and he should probably, as the Americans say, suck it up. Take one for the team. It's not _his_ fault if Molly Hopoer keeps doing The Thing, now is it?

Besides, if he tells her off for doing it then she might stop coming over- _And then where would he be?_


	4. Braid

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Bekah1218, ForShizzleRenizzle, SpenceFTW and NuggetsOfDemiGodWisdom. Glad you're enjoying these- Onwards!

* * *

 **#Braid**

* * *

"What?"

Molly blinks at him. Touches her hair self-consciously.

Sherlock wets his lips, unable to look away.

"Am I...? Is it falling down?"

And she turns to look in the mirror above her mantle-piece, checks her hair. The thick, dark tresses are wound into a single braid, pinned against her head in an up-do that it is taking all of Sherlock's will power not to pull asunder.

 _Damn but she looks lovely like this._

It's the primness of it. The... properness. So feminine, and yet so severe. He hasn't seen her wear it like that since before she dumped Meat Dagger and he had, quite frankly, forgotten what it does to him-

Because seeing that thick rope of hair, all he can think about doing is wrapping it in his fist. Sliding it through his fingers.

He can picture it against his hands, dark against their paleness, and he doesn't know why but it, well, it... does things to him.

The way her glasses do.

The way her smiles do.

 _All of these things seem to have an Access All Areas pass right into his hind brain._

Sherlock has never thought of himself as particularly kinky (despite his time with The Woman) but there are certain things about Molly that he likes, things which almost amount to a fetish. Her Godawful fashion sense is one of them. That braid is another.

It calls out to him, whispers to him like a siren.

 _Pull me loose_ , it says. _Set me free- You know you want to..._

Without even realising it, he's gotten closer to Molly, the heat of her shoulder-blades reaching out to his chest as he stares at her hair and she stares at his reflection in the mirror.

"Are you alright?" she asks, turning to look at him in puzzlement and like an idiot he nods mutely.

Reaches out and slides his knuckles across the braid's raised, knotted surface.

"Does it look awful?" she asks, suddenly unsure, and he shakes his head, entranced.

"I'd tell you to wear it like that forever," he says, "but God only knows how I'd get any work done..."

Her cheeks pink at his words and he blinks. Stops. Realises how asinine that sounded, but Molly is grinning at him by now so he can't take it back.

"You like it?" she says and he nods. Smiles.

He can feel the heat of her body pressing against his.

He raises her palm to his mouth and presses a kiss to it. "Are you absolutely certain we have to go out today?" he asks, his hands sliding to her waist, the words whispered into her ear. He sees her pulse jump at her throat and feels a surge of triumph. His cock twitches, beginning to harden and that's it.

 _The game is on_.

"We promised..." she says, but the words are breathless. They lack certainty.

Her hands are already moving to his shirt buttons, beginning to open them up... She's shifted so that her hips and chest are pressing tantalisingly against his...

An hour later Molly's hair is loose, spilling like silk across Sherlock's pillow.

He slides it through his fingers as she curls against his chest. Dozes.

"Much better," he whispers to himself, the words lost in her hair and his smile.


	5. DryCleanOnly

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#DryCleanOnly**

* * *

 _He won't let the drycleaners anywhere near it, and people are starting to talk._

The "it," in question is one of his suit jackets. Charcoal grey, slickly tailored, it's among the first things he bought after he came back from his Hiatus. (Over the years away he'd built up bulk, and he had thus found that none of his remaining clothes, when he returned, had fit him.

A trip to Saville Row with Anthea and Mycroft's credit card had thus proved necessary- And enjoyable).

The circumstances of the jacket's purchase are beside the point however; they are not the reason he's refusing to take it to the drycleaners now.

No, the reason he's keeping it on its own, strictly sequestered from the rest of his wardrobe, is that the last time he saw Molly Hooper, she ended up wearing it.

She'd also ended up- quite unexpectedly- making it smell of her perfume.

Sherlock knows she hadn't done it on purpose; She'd been on a date, she'd noticed some red flags. A little too much wine taken a little too quickly by her date. An implication that he felt he was owed something because he had brought her out, and that something wasn't a kiss on the cheek good night. A text to John had led to Sherlock coming into the restaurant and spiriting her away, ostensibly "on an emergency."

It had also led to him- none too subtly- implying that the idiot who had frightened her should not contact her again. _Ever_.

Standing outside in the cold while waiting for Sherlock to do his patented Make A Cab Appear Trick (TM) she'd started shivering and he had thus lent her his jacket to keep out the chill. She'd smiled gratefully at him as he'd slipped it over her shoulders and he had, once again felt that familiar swoop of feeling in his belly as he took in her lovely smile. They'd ended up back at Baker Street, eating a Thai takeaway and watching some nonsense about pirates which seemed wholly historically inaccurate to Sherlock but which seemed to entrance Molly-

As she often did, Molly had fallen asleep on Sherlock's couch and Sherlock had taken her into his room. Put her in his bed.

He'd found the jacket when he went back out to the living room and he'd draped it over himself as he lay down to sleep.

It was only then that he had smelt the tell0tale reminder of Molly's presence. It had wafted around him, oddly soothing- _comforting_ \- and when he breathed it in deeply, he couldn't help but smile.

The next morning after she left he hung it in his wardrobe and there it has stayed. Unworn, but not untouched. It makes him smile every time he looks at it.

Mrs. Hudson thinks he's doing an experiment.

John keeps eyeing him in that way that he has but Sherlock Holmes is adamant- _The jacket's not going to the cleaners and that is that._


	6. TeachMe

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Bekah1218 and bkpeake- Enjoy!

* * *

 **#TeachMe**

* * *

" _I_ could teach you."

And Sherlock clears his throat.

Looks at the ground.

Tries to work out where, precisely, that suggestion came from- _Since he certainly hadn't meant to offer his teaching services today._

Molly's blinking up at him, her expression startled. His heart is thudding rather loudly in his chest- So loud that he feels an odd terror she'll be able to hear it. That she'll be able to tell that, whatever his attempts at nonchalance, his last offer was far from casual. The urge to babble under her gaze is becoming almost overwhelming but he tamps it down, makes himself look at her-

When he speaks next, his voice is surprisingly even.

"It's only a waltz," he says quietly. "Any idiot can waltz." Again he clears his throat. "Even me," he adds, when she still doesn't answer him. "Mycroft and I- Mummy insisted, when we were children-"

The mention of his family apparently breaks Molly out of her reverie.

"You probably won't enjoy teaching me," she blurts out, speaking over him. Her cheeks are reddening rapidly. "I can't- I mean, I've no sense of rhythm, none at all! And I don't want you to feel like you're obligated- I wasn't asking for you to help me-"

He looks at her askance. "Don't you want my help?" he says.

He realises how sharply those words came out and he tries to gentle his tone.

"It's a wedding," he says, more quietly. "You're the maid of honour- Meena will want you to be there, and you'll have to dance the first dance with the best man." _He tries not to let his annoyance with the thought of that particular tradition show, but he's not sure if he succeeds._

"You've said it's black tie," he adds, rather than letting himself brood on _that_ thought, "and that probably means a formal dance- Which is the sort that I excelled in."

Molly's still staring at him, her eyes large and dark and strangely... wary.

It makes Sherlock feel almost hurt.

"Don't you trust me?" he asks softly, and though he means the remark to be joking, it comes out far too low and serious to be read that way. Certainly Molly doesn't find it funny.

No, rather she swallows.

Bobs her head.

She can't seem to take her eyes off him.

"I trust you," she says quietly. "I just don't..." She lets out a sudden puff of laughter. Looks away. This time her expression is chagrined. "Maybe it's me I don't trust," she says, and though he's not sure why, Sherlock can't help but feel that there's a double meaning to that question.

 _There seems to be a double meaning to everything between he an Molly these days, after Sherrinford_.

Nevertheless, he holds his hand out to her. Watches her carefully as she takes it. He scrolls through his phone, finds a piece of music he had been thinking to adapt as his ringtone. Sets it to play and then puts the phone down, speaker up, on the kitchen table to his right.

The music spills out into the room and as it does he pulls her gently to him. She comes easily, her arms coming up to hook around his neck though that's far from the most proper place to have them. (Sherlock likewise lets his own come to rest about her waist, rather than moving them into the proper frame for dancing which is own teachers taught him.)

She stares up at him as he starts to move; he knows that he should be encouraging her to look at her feet, to match what he's doing, but he honestly finds himself too entranced to care. For he can feel the warmth of her, her softness, against him. He can't help but think how easy this is. How natural, how right it seems to move together in this way... _It feels almost like they were made to do this..._

He's still thinking that when their eyes meet.

Hold.

Molly cocks her head and her eye darken. Her lashes flutter and her tongue darts out to lick her lips.

Before she can do anything else Sherlock ducks his head down and presses a kiss to her mouth. He holds his breath as he does it, wills himself not to tighten his grip on her and discomfit her. _He wouldn't do that for the world_.

For a split second she stills, going rigid in his arms, and Sherlock pulls back. Afraid he misread things. Afraid he did something wrong. _Her eyes are still closed and she isn't saying anything_. Panic starts to claw at him, certainty that he'd done something to ruin their friendship rendering him mute-

And then just as suddenly Molly opens her eyes.

Squares her shoulders.

Pulls him close.

Her lips are much firmer when they meet his, but then she's certain where he was merely curious. She's pursuing where he was merely trying his luck.

Her arms tighten around him, and his around he; Within moments their dance lesson is forgotten. _No waltz could match this._ Sherlock can feel her breathing, sharp and heavy and wanting, wanting, wanting, against his lips. Her chest presses against his with each inhalation and his hands are full of her hips. Her arms. Her waist.

When they finally have to pull apart she stares up at him, starry-eyed and flushed. Tousled.

Their hands have somehow ended up threaded together and both of them are breathing heavily.

"Good?" he asks breathlessly and she nods. Steps in closer to him.

She steps onto his feet, moulding her body to his and wrapping her arms around him like a vice.

"Bloody spectacular," she says against his throat, and her voice is so near and so wanted that it makes his breath catch.

They begin to move together again. Kissing. Touching. Moving. Dancing.

The music plays but the dance lesson is over... At least for tonight...

* * *

Molly waltzes at Meena's wedding, but it's not with the best man.

No, her date is rather insistent that she spends the night with him.

When everyone comments on how graceful she is, Sherlock merely smiles and the pulls her to his side for another waltz. Another kiss.

She blushes but never objects.


	7. TotallyPlatonic

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to doctor-molly-hooper-holmes on tumblr for the use of her hashtag.

* * *

 **#TotallyPlatonic**

* * *

"You know what I want."

Molly's grinning at him from the other end of the sofa.

"Come on, Sherlock!" she coos, poking him with her bare foot. "I told you: you know what I want..."

"No," he says crisply, turning his attention back to his copy of _Pathology Today_. "I don't feel like it."

Molly and her Feminine Wiles will not be indulged, he tells himself. Not tonight.

 _He must put his foot down, or all is lost._

"Sheeerrrllloooocckk!" she sing-songs. "Don't be like that, darling." Her toes have made their way underneath his magazine and are currently resting lightly on his left knee. Blocking the bottom half of the text. Past experience tells him that soon they will make their way thigh-ward and then, oh then things tend to get very interesting indeed...

He is aware, suddenly, that the tips of his ears are now turning red.

He is also aware, suddenly, that Molly is grinning from ear to ear.

He looks at her; she bats her eyelashes coquettishly. He makes a show of looking back to his magazine, but before he can begin to read again she scoots forward and yanks it fro his hands. Skitters back to her end of the sofa, the magazine held above her head like a prize.

With a growl Sherlock darts after her, pinning her easily beneath his body and, when she keeps the magazine out of reach, tickling her mercilessly. (She' s awfully ticklish, his Molly.) She lets out a shriek of laughter, loud enough to wake the dead, and just as Sherlock elects to partake of his usual method of shutting her up- that of snogging her silly- the door to 221B opens and John and Lestrade wander in, Rosie in a papoose against her father's chest.

"Good evening, yeah?" Geoff says, grinning maniacally at the two of them and waggling his eyebrows.

Molly blushes but doesn't try to move away. "It was going that way, yeah," she says wryly, before pressing a kiss to Sherlock's Adam's apple and indicating that he should move off her.

He does as he's asked, though he's not best pleased.

He insists on keeping a hold on her hand, however

"Well, you'll be glad to know that story you planted made the front page," John says pointedly, tossing a copy of _The Telegraph_ at Sherlock as he makes his way towards the kitchen, unclipping the papoose as he goes. "Kitty Reilly's already splashed her opposing op-ed all over _The Mail Online_ , but so far I think everyone else is buying it." He shakes his head. "All I can say is: you jammy bastard."

"That's the general opinion, yes," Molly giggles. With a distracted grunt, Sherlock opens the paper up. Takes a look at the- frankly, ludicrous- headline he and Molly's last frolic in Buckingham Palace had forced him to plant: _Super-Boffin and His Morgue Princess Deny Affair Again: "It's all platonic!" They Say._

"Super-boffin?" Sherlock scoffs.

"Morgue Princess?" Molly retorts indignantly.

Sherlock looks at her askance. "Well, if anyone were qualified to be a "Morgue Princess," it would be you, my darling..."

And he brings their joined hands up to his lips. Kisses her knuckles. Molly melts and leans into him, kissing him sweetly. Curling into his lap. As often happens when she witnesses her Aunty and Uncle snogging, Rosie claps her pudgy little hands in delight and whoops. The kiss deepens, both Molly and Sherlock apparently forgetting that they now have an audience...

"Oh yeah," Lestrade mutters to John, giving the couple the side-eye. "Can't imagine how the papers got the notion anything was going on there..."

Without warning the copy of _The Telegraph_ is tossed at his head; when he turns to check who threw it at him he sees an unrepentant-looking Sherlock and a starry-eyed, rosy-cheeked Molly, who has just been kissed breathless.

Both are grinning angelically at him.

"Molly and I are strictly good friends," Holmes says archly, before pulling his "good friend," into his lap and starting to snog her again. "If anyone asks," he mumbles distractedly between kisses, "then that's what you, em..."

"Tell them?" Molly inquires wickedly.

"Yes!" Sherlock grins. "Tell them, that's the phrase..."

At which point he succumbs to Hurricane Hooper's attentions and quite possibly forgets how to breathe, he's so busy snogging.

 _If she keeps this up,_ he thinks, _he might well forget his own name..._

"In case you were wondering," John says dryly, "that's not what platonic meant when _I_ lived here..."

Greg cocks a cynical eyebrow and he gives a snort of laughter. Turns his attention back to his daughter, who is gurgling up at him.

With a growl of laughter Sherlock gets to his feet and slings Molly over his shoulder. Heads off towards his bedroom, a glint in his eye and a spring in his step.

"Must be going, John! Geoffrey! Rosie!" he calls out as he goes, a giggling Molly waving goodbye to her two friends as she disappears through the door. The sounds of laughter and manhandling are soon heard from Sherlock's (alas, inadequately sound-proofed) bedroom, followed by protesting bedsprings. _Loudly_ protesting bedsprings.

"Are you sure he knows what platonic means?" Greg asks, but John merely shakes his head and smiles down at his daughter.

 _Sherlock may be near forty, but he's glad to see his friend is finally letting himself go through puberty- And with a woman who's clearly the love of his life, no less._

"Does it matter if it keeps him out of trouble?" he asks mildly, and Lestrade finds that he has to agree: it does not.


	8. HurricaneHooper

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#HurricaneHooper**

* * *

 _For such a little thing,_ Sherlock sometimes muses, _his Molly is awfully bloody bossy._

She's handsy, and energetic, and hell on shirt buttons- _But then that's the price of living with her, Sherlock knows._

When they'd first begun going out he'd been nervous; it had, after all, been quite a while since he had had a... paramour. His relationship with The Woman notwithstanding, sex was not something which he had pursued in quite some time, and he had therefore been rather worried that he might end up scaring Molly off.

 _That was, obviously, the last thing he'd wanted to do._

But he'd assumed- given how sweet and lovely she is- that she would be the sort of shy, vanilla girlfriend he'd spent his entire twenties avoiding. He'd assumed that she would want candlelight, and soft music, and all sort of sentimental, courtly gestures in order to get her in the mood-

What he had discovered, however, (within moments of propositioning her, in fact) was that Molly Hooper is no scared little bunny, ready to scarper at the first sign of coitus.

No, rather she resembles the sort of bunny they sell in _Ann Summers_. The sort of bunny whose libido can run and run and run- And then run and run some more.

 _It had been completely bloody brilliant._

Because from that first (delightful) night, she has shown a truly delightful degree of enthusiasm. She has taken him in hand- quite literally- and then set about, in her own words, "Shagging him bloody silly."

And she has turned out to be every bit as good as her word- _Thank Christ._

She's pulled him into cleaning cupboards. She's snogged him in her office. She's taken to jumping into his arms (and into his pants) with delightful regularity every time she visits Baker Street, and never mind if Mrs. Hudson can hear them. ("She's seen worse," is what Molly says, and by that point Sherlock is usually too breathless with pleasure to gainsay her at all)

No shirt is safe around her, nor is any pair of trousers.

He has had to start wearing underwear to try and dissuade her from some of her more... ambitious plans when they're together, out in the field.

And the most wonderful thing about it? Every time Sherlock starts to get nervous about what to do, or how to move things along, well, Hurricane Hooper takes over and gets him through it.

Every time he starts to fret about his past, and his suitability as boyfriend material, Molly smiles and snogs him and lays him and his fears- and his clothes- to rest.

It's wonderful: If either of them asks for something new they usually do it. If he wants to make sure she comes, well, Molly will make sure he knows how to do that too. He never has to worry about being a good lover because, quite frankly, Molly Hooper never gives him a chance to cock it up: She is blessedly, blissfully, open about getting what she wants and telling him how much she wants it from him, specifically-

Sometimes Lestrade teases him about it, about who wears the trousers in their relationship, and Sherlock's answer is always the same: He couldn't give a toss,, considering how wonderful being with his Molly is.

Besides, he now knows wearing trousers to be over-rated.

 _His jaunt at Buckingham Palace laid the foundation of this suspicion, and Molly Hoper has proved it absolutely bloody true._

When he tells Molly this she grins, looking up at him with wicked eyes before going back to sucking a black mark on his throat that even his scarf won't be able to hide.

"Problem?" she asks through her suckling, and he feels the vibration of her laughter against the skin of his throat.

"Definitely not," Sherlock says, his eyes closing in rapture.

He drops his head back against his pillow and sighs in bliss as Hurricane Hooper lays waste to him once again...


	9. CrowningGlory

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#CrowningGlory**

* * *

The first time she hands him the brush, he stares at it in stupification.

 _He knows what it is, obviously, he just doesn't know what she wants him to do with it._

He frowns, staring at her in their dresser mirror and raising his eyebrows in question. He opens his mouth to ask her but she presses one finger to his lips and then turns. Presents him with her back and the long, silken tangle of hair which is tumbling down it.

Her eyes look... troubled in the glass.

"Please," she says quietly, and there's something to the catch in her voice, something to the way she stares at him in the mirror which makes him nod. Step in closer to her.

He can see her pulse thudding at her throat, her skin flushing against the paleness of her white cotton nightdress.

He takes the thick, soft mass of her hair in his fist and runs the brush along the ends, untangling them carefully; After a few moments of that he lets the hair loose, starts stroking the brush downwards from the crown of her hair.

Molly hums in satisfaction as he does so, her eyes fluttering shut. Her shoulders drooping in on themselves.

Her head drops forward, chin touching her chest, and when Sherlock lays the brush on the table before her she lets out a long, slow sigh.

Before he can move his hand from the brush hers is on top of it. Stopping him.

She presses gently down against his hand, her eyes still closed, but this time he can see she's frowning. A tiny line has appeared between her eyebrows. He doesn't know what to say- _he never knows what to say_ \- but judging by the look on her face she's... tired? Worried? He leans into her, and as he does she turns suddenly in her seat and wraps her arms around him. Holds him tightly. Her face is buried against his belly, her new-brushed hair brushing against his hands.

"What is it?" he asks but she just shakes her head. Holds him closer.

Her pulse is still thudding, there at her throat.

"Is it...Is it a bad thing?" he asks and she nods. Opens her eyes and looks up at him. There's so much feeling in their depths it almost frightens him.

 _He hates when he feels this useless._

"There was... There was..." She sighs. Shakes her head to herself. "The patient was seven years old," she says eventually. Her voice is soft. "Female. I think she lived in Croydon. She... She liked _Pokemon_ , judging by her shoes. The guy driving the car was upstairs being operated on, but she was... She was..."

And she shakes her head again. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just... I just thought I'd be okay by now and I'm still-"

"You're here with me." Sherlock says softly. Firmly. "There's nothing to be sorry for." He frowns at her. "Do you want to go to bed?" and when she says yes he reaches down. Picks her up and carries her towards the covers.

She opens her mouth to refuse and then just as suddenly shuts it again.

Instead she curls her arms more tightly around him and buries her head in the crook of his neck.

He can feel her breath there, as well as her tears.

* * *

Tomorrow morning she'll wake and they'll make love. Tomorrow they'll wind together and sigh together and make each other come.

But it's the here and now which will always seem truly intimate to Sherlock.

 _Now, at least, if she asks him to brush her hair he knows just what it means._


	10. HurricaneHolmes

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Slightly NSFW, just so you know...

* * *

 **#HurricaneHolmes**

* * *

"Best. Shag. _Ever_."

And a breathless, blissfully post-coital Sherlock flops onto his back.

Lets out a long, lusty sigh of contentment before pulling Molly to him with his free arm.

 _His intent is clearly to snog her silly._

The pathologist comes easily, allowing him to settle her on his chest. In the pale light of the bedroom she can see his eyes glittering, face split into a gorgeous, daft smile which is made of three parts joy and one part swaggering, manly pride.

(He has, after all- despite his protestations to the contrary- reduced her to jelly just as much as she reduced him).

Breathing heavily, she stares down at him. Drinks in the sight of him. _Her Sherlock._ _ **Hers**_ _._ Beneath her palm, she can feel his heart thundering, its pounding rhythm a match for her own. His sweat-slicked body is every bit as warm and sated as hers; the scent of salt and arousal and his aftershave hangs in the air. She stares down at him and he cocks his head, darts a coy, butterfly kiss to the edge of her lips, her jaw, before just as suddenly letting out a whoop of devilish laughter and changing places, pressing her into the bed beneath him-

She retaliates by tickling him until he's reduced to a messy puddle of swearing and giggles, the latter nearly causing him to fall out of the bed.

He's only saved by grabbing onto her, forcing her to pull him back to her with a yelp.

"My hero," he grins when she does it, and she digs him playfully in the side. In retaliation, he links their fingers together, interlocking them before pulling Molly's arms above her head. Moving so that now he's straddling her hips, her body laid out beneath him.

He stares down at her and suddenly- as always- Molly feels like the world has come to a standstill.

"Beautiful little thing," he says, and the words sound almost like they're being said to himself. "Pretty little thing," he says, and he kisses her collarbone. Runs his nose along it. Breathes in her scent. "Lovely, gorgeous, clever little thing," he says, and he kisses her lips. Her throat. The undersides of her breasts.

She finds herself grinning up at him like an idiot, but then she always does.

"So perfect," he says, and he's pressing cheeky, grinning kisses to her nipples, now. Sucking and licking and nuzzling them as he grins up at her."I'm so lucky," he murmurs, more quietly, and at this she sees something move through him.

Something... soft.

Something vulnerable.

Something unutterable, inalienably, him.

 _Molly knows she would do anything to protect it._

"We're both of us lucky, love," she says softly, threading her fingers through his curls and stroking.

He sighs and leans into her like a tomcat being petted. The familiarity of the reaction brings a burst of fondness to her heart.

She may be the Hurricane in their relationship- At least that's what Sherlock always calls her- but in this moment, he's the storm. He's the hurricane. A force of nature, a knot of want. Of trust and joy and loveliness and feeling.

Molly winds him in her arms and holds him close.

It's as she assumes he's drifting off to sleep that she hears him whisper, "Ready for another round, my clever little thing?" and of course- for him- she is.


	11. HRReport

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And can I just say thank you to all of the people who are reviewing and adding the story- Glad you like it.

* * *

 **#HRReport**

* * *

Stamford sighs and looks at Molly. At Sherlock.

The two are standing in front of his desk, shifting guiltily from foot to foot like two teenagers who'd been called to the headmaster's office. Molly, in particular, looks quite... abashed.

In fact, she appears to be heaving trouble meeting her boss's eye.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is glaring imperiously down his nose at Stamford, his body language overbearing, as if he has to prevent himself from moving in font of Molly and physically shielding her from what's about to happen. His hand twitches towards hers every so often, as if he wishes to take it and only at the last minute reminds himself that he should not.

 _It is, Mike can't help but think, really rather... sweet._

Of course, he's not so foolish as to say this aloud: While he'd long suspected that the detective's partiality for Molly was not entirely professional, and he's very glad to see that Holmes has finally gotten his head out his arse where she's concerned, he's not a bloody idiot.

And because he's not a bloody idiot, he reminds himself grimly, he cannot allow a repeat of today's performance. The Morgue is a place of business and both of the people before him are supposed to be professionals- _Highly paid_ professionals, in service to the police.

 _They are also_ _ **supposed**_ _to be grownups_.

"Alright," he says bracingly, having decided that neither Bonnie nor Clyde are going to crack, "how about you just explain to me how things got so... out of hand?"

Molly opens her mouth to speak but immediately Sherlock speaks over her.

"It was my idea," he blurts. "Molly had nothing to do with it."

Stamford frowns at him. "According to Hopkins, when he walked in Molly was holding you by the tie and-" He checks the incident report before him- "Demanding to know whether you "were going to be Miss Molly's good boy?"

He narrows his eyes at Sherlock.

The detective at least has the good grace to blush a little.

"He then had to witness Molly- Again, I quote- ","Having her wicked way with you," on top of one of the slabs."

Stamford, eyes the detective.

"How, precisely, was that Molly, "having nothing to do with it, hmm?"

He has the pleasure of seeing Holmes gulp.

Again Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but this time it's Molly who jumps in.

"It was my idea, alright?" she says quickly. "I, well, I used to have, I mean, um, I sort of have this, well, everyone knows I have this _thing_ where Sherlock's concerned..."

At this the detective grins proudly and she sticks out her tongue; His expression turns slightly wounded and instantly she looks contrite. She wraps an arm around his waist and - _Good God, Mike thinks he might need to bleach his eyes out_ \- Holmes actually cuddles the petite woman against his side. Kisses the top of her head tenderly.

Stamford fights the desire to roll his eyes heavenward and ask for patience.

Unfortunately for him, however, Molly's not done.

"So, well, Sherlock, um, he was undercover," she continues, "and he was wearing these glasses and this awful, badly-fitted suit in the lab. He said he was trying to work out a character for a stakeout...He said he needed to play a nerdy, nervous, innocent sort of lab assistant and could I help...?"

And she flushes, biting her lip, apparently distracted by the memory- Or maybe, just by what it does to her.

Again Holmes preens.

Again Mike fights the urge to roll his eyes heavenwards and ask for patience.

After a moment Molly de-buffers and rejoins her boss in the here and now- _Not a moment too soon for Mike._

"He looked, well, he looked quite...edible," she says eventually, still blushing. "And, well, I'm a woman, alright? I have needs and, um, feelings, and, and _desires_ and things-"

And she crosses her arms, her face turning scarlet. This time Holmes' gives into his inclinations and takes her hand, pressing it to his heart and reaching out to touch her cheek. He kisses her lips softly. Sweetly. _Chastely_.

When Stamford clears his throat Holmes glares daggers at him, furious that his girlfriend's been upset, and again, Mike can't help but think, it's really rather sweet.

"Some of these desires involve asking me to pretend to be her intern and then bossing me around the Lab all day, alright?" Sherlock adds, apparently having decided that _that's_ the best tack to take with this.(Mike's fervent hope for his sanity doesn't agree with him).

"When Molly explained her little fantasy I felt it incumbent upon me to help her fulfil it," Holmes bites out. "I do, after all, take my commitment to Molly rather seriously, and any sexual preferences she has are to be indulged, if at all feasible..."

And with that he straightens himself up. Goes back to glowering at Mike (though he doesn't release Molly).

Stamford squeezes the bridge of his nose. Shakes his head. _He's beginning to get a migraine, and he suspects it will be the first of many, where these two are concerned._ Because while he _is_ happy to see that Sherlock takes sexual Molly's needs seriously, he can't believe he actually has to say this.

"Obviously, Sherlock, Molly, I'm glad that your relationship is working out well," he begins, lacing his fingers together. Making sure to keep his tone even.

"God knows, you took your time getting together," he continues, "and I wish you both all the best, I really, truly do.

"But whatever you may think, the St Bart's morgue is not the place for you two to act up, or role play, or do anything unprofessional, and I am not willing to have a conversation like this with either of you again- _Is. That. Clear_?"

And he leans back, crosses his arms over his chest.

Does his best to look imposing.

 _Years of long practice- and his bulk- have made him rather good at it._

Both pathologist and detective nod to show they understand, though Holmes seems rather less willing than Hooper. In fact, he looks quite put out at the thought that his and Molly's randyness might get them both into trouble, not just him.

Mike, with the managerial wisdom that comes from experience, elects to ignore this, however. "We'll consider the matter settled then," he says instead. "I won't pass anything onto HR-" He shudders, imagining the paperwork- "Just don't let it happen again, and show yourselves out."

And with that he goes back to signing reports. He doesn't need to add a "dismissed," the message is obvious. Slightly chastened, but not really sorry, Molly and Sherlock exit his office, hand in hand. Heads mutually bowed and faces mutually reddened.

They wait until they're out of earshot to speak.

"I suppose we'll have to play in my lab from now on, Miss Molly?" Sherlock murmurs. She blinks up at him and he shakes his head in mock mournfulness. " So much for verisimilitude, eh?"

Molly's grin is slow. Shy- Morphing in her lovely Mollyish way into sinful as she gets the gist. "I suppose we will," she says softly, already pulling him towards the cleaner's closet- "Verisimilitude is, after all, _so_ over-rated..."

* * *

Mike Stamford ends up booking her and Sherlock Holmes on a sexual harassment seminar later that day, as well as offering the unfortunate cleaner who walked in on them a raise.

 _After all, there are things one can see and never unsee, and apparently Miss Molly and Sherlock Holmes falls roundly on that list..._


	12. Buffering

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#Buffering**

* * *

It's just so, well... him.

 _The reaction, that is._

When Molly walks out of the bathroom in a dress before going to Mrs. Hudson's birthday party, when she pads out into his bedroom in her shorts and t-shirt before climbing into bed... Sherlock always stops.

Stares.

His eyes turn slightly glazed and his expression slackens.

Just for a moment he's gone away- buffering, John calls it- and then just as suddenly he's back. Looking sheepish. Glancing away guiltily. Sometimes he even bites his lip.

 _There's something about it that Molly finds terribly... endearing._

In the aftermath he always pulls her close. Holds her. Sometimes her dress, sometimes her hair, but he always puts his hands on her. Breathes her in.

 _It's like he's trying to convince himself she's really there._

At first she'd been surprised- nonplussed- but now that she's gotten used to it she reacts in kind. She moves closer to him. Touches him too. She strokes him, kisses him, feels his skin, just the way he does for her. He can get lost in sensation, she knows that, and she wants him to know that she's a safe place for him to do it.

 _She wants him to know that she's here for him_.

She thinks she succeeds; He's not always good at communicating how he feels, but he's willing to try, for her. To show her, rather than to tell. He's willing to let her close and she knows how hard that is for him- _So difficult, after everything he's been through._ So she does her part. She tries to make it easy. Most things with Sherlock are easy, if you give them enough time, and time is a gift she'll always give to him.

"You like this?" she asks sometimes, gesturing to her clothes, or her hair, or whatever has gotten this reaction out of him.

He'll nod. Smile.

She loves that smile, bright and boyish. Shy and sheepish.

 _That smile isn't for everyone, it's only for the people he loves, and- amazing as it seems- one of those people is her._

"I like it," he'll say. "It's..." And then he'll come up with the most ridiculous, overly complicated and wordy compliment he can think of, just to show that he's still Sherlock Holmes, dammit! He still has his Big Bloody Brain and she has not bamboozled him.

It's funny, but that's not the thing that makes Molly's stomach flutter.

That's not the thing that sets her heart alight.

No, it's that look on his face when he looks at her first. The reaction she wrings from him, and the fact that she's the one who makes him buffer. _Her, not anyone else_. And for the sake of that, she'll wind him in her arms and kiss him, his body warm and flush against her own. She'll lay him down and make him gasp for her. Make him shiver for her. She might even make him breathless, if he gives her enough time, or if she has enough energy. (Of course, she makes a point of always having enough energy, because it's him).

In the aftermath he'll be quiet. Peaceful. She often finds herself thinking about how lucky she is to have a Sherlock of her very own.

She hopes that he understands that.

She hopes her actions make that clear to him.

He sleeps beside her in trust, his breath calm and even, and there's nothing more she wants in the world than the here and now.


	13. TheLittleWoman

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#TheLittleWoman**

* * *

"That's enough."

And Molly Hooper- _teeny, tiny,_ _ **less than-a-stone-wet**_ _Molly Hooper_ \- slides in between Detective Inspector Jason Braddock and her boyfriend. Pushes herself into the older man's space, forcing him to back up.

Glowering, defiant, she crosses her arms and glares up at him, daring him to repeat what he just said. Daring him to call the man she loves- the man who just solved his crime for him- a freak once more.

Her expression promises unpleasant repercussions if he does.

To her right, several members of Braddock's team let out disbelieving snickers, clearly under the impression that a) Molly can't do anything to their guvnor and b) Sherlock must be an absolute pushover to need a woman protecting him. Holmes, on the other hand, merely stares down at his fiancée, eyes narrowed, face pensive. He's peering at her quizzically, the scrutiny so intense that it would make anyone else uncomfortable.

Molly, being Molly, doesn't mind however.

 _It's been a long time since she's felt uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze._

His hand is wrapped protectively around her wrist, its slight tremor telling her how nervous he is though he's not showing it. The thought that this git is making him uncomfortable is enough to make Molly's blood boil but she refuses to give into first impulses and throw Braddock out of the Morgue- that would just be playing into his hands (and giving him an excuse to bother Lestrade).

Instead she holds his gaze, waits for him to crack (his sort always crack).

The silence stretches out uncomfortably.

She's very, very ok with that.

"Need the little woman to defend you, Holmes?" Braddock sneers eventually but though he drips bravado, Molly can see how his confidence is draining away. Perhaps Sherlock sees it too, for something flashes in his eyes. Something knowing. He doesn't answer, merely inclines his head curtly to Braddock.

"If Molly feels the need to defend me then I'm happy to be defended," he says evenly. "I shall merely endeavour to deserve it."

And he smiles that cold, hard smile which everyone hates so much.

Gives Molly's wrist an ever-so-slight squeeze before dropping it back at her waist.

Molly smiles. "The implication that you should be ashamed of being defended by a woman is idiotic," she points out, staring down Braddock.

"And the implication that one should be ashamed of being defended by this woman, who happens to be the finest medical mind at Bart's, is even more asinine," Sherlock adds.

"So why don't you bugger off and annoy someone else, eh, Jason?"

And with that he turns his back to the policemen, effectively dismissing them. "You heard him," Molly adds helpfully, eyeing up the other coppers. "Bugger off and annoy someone else."

With a huff of disgust Braddock and his boys flounce out of the Morgue, all three wearing expressions that look suspiciously like a communal slapped arse-

"You ok?" Molly asks quietly once they're gone, wrapping her arms around Sherlock's waist and laying her cheek against his back.

 _She hates to see him treated badly._

"Never better," he says softly. She doesn't need to be able to see his face to know that he's smiling. "Thank you, honeybee," he adds quietly-

And then they both get back to work.


	14. FeasibilityStudy

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Slight mention od D/s for anyone that squicks- Just FYI. Enjoy!

* * *

 **#FeasibilityStudy**

* * *

"It's going to fall off," Sherlock says.

"It's not going to fall off," Molly tells him.

The Great Detective pouts. "I'm telling you, honeybee," he says. "It's going to fall off!"

"It's not going to fall off," Molly laughs, folding his scarf over lengthways and scrambling back onto their bed. Pressing a kiss to his lips before darting away.

Sherlock huffs petulantly but says no more, merely keeps his eyes closed and his arms crosses above his head at the wrists.

Carefully, trying not to tickle him, Molly wraps the scarf around them, Attempts to secure them to the bed's headboard with a knot.

For a moment she thinks she's succeeded.

Sherlock's shoulders slump slightly, some of their ever-present tension winding away, and then just as suddenly he opens his eyes. Let's out a whooping "Nope!" and lunges at Molly, pulling himself loose from the scarf easily and rolling her so that she's underneath him. Giggling breathlessly. Grinding against him shamelessly.

"Told you it would fall off," he says, and with a devilish grin he dives down towards her belly, yanks up her pyjama shirt and starts tickling her stomach and hips. Kissing them. Nipping at them.

She shrieks with laughter, kicking and tickling him back.

It degenerates from there; Someone both his scarf and her sleeping shorts end up tossed across the room They're soon followed by her top and his socks and boxers. The two wrestle, naked now, until they're out of breath from laughing and so happy that they literally can't bring themselves to keep moving-

When they finally come to a stop Molly gazes up at the man she loves and smiles. Strokes his hair away from his face as he gazes down at her.

She can't seem to stop smiling when they're together, and oh, she likes the thought of that.

"I think, if you really want to do this then we'll need something else," she says sensibly. "Something tighter, maybe?" She frowns, already thinking. "Not handcuffs though," she adds before he can suggest it. "I'd be worried I'd hurt you with those..."

At these words Sherlock... Halts. Stills slightly. His smile is soft as he stares down at her, his thumb ghosting down to wrap around her pulse-point and caress.

"You always want to take care of me, don't you?" he says softly and there's such, such... _wonder_ in his voice as he says it that Molly thinks her heart might crack. It might even break.

 _How can he be surprised by this?_ she wonders. _Doesn't he know how easy it is to care about him?_

She knows better than to ask though- It will merely make him feel even more out of place than he usually does. It might even break the spell of what's going on between them, and she can't bear to do that.

Rather, she presses against him, shows she wants to move. When he allows her to do so she rolls them so that now he's on his back, his body laid out before her like a map of the universe. She can see his pulse thumping, there at his throat. Feel his cock hardening, against her hip.

Slowly, gently, she reaches for the belt of his dressing gown and brings it up to her lips. Kisses it, then kisses him.

He lets out the loveliest, sweetest sigh as she does so.

Without being prompted, he raises his wrists above his head again and this time she succeeds in tying them. Gently, Molly slides her fingers around the knotted loops, making sure there's enough room for him to struggle and not be hurt. Making sure his circulation won't be cut off that that there'll be no marks left on his flesh. He is, after all, in her care right now.

"Do you think that will fall off?" she asks and there's teasing in her voice now, just as there's teasing in his eyes. In his smile.

Sherlock nods in pleasure and drops his head back to the pillow. "That should prove feasible," he whispers- "honeybee." He snuggles down into the blankets. "Do with me what you will..."

And he settles himself more comfortably. Closes his eyes. Sighs in contentment.

Molly smiles at the sight before her and then sets about showing him just how easy she finds it to take care of him...


	15. LittleThing

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#LittleThing**

* * *

They're walking home from St Bart's the first time.

No warning, just a sudden "hmph!" and then small fingers lock around his in a grip that's trying not to be tight. A grip that's trying to be nonchalant and failing miserably.

She has to walk extra fast for a second- his stride being rather longer than hers- and then they both adapt. His steps shorten, hers lengthen. Neither of them trip the other up. They resolutely do not look at one another; The tips of both their ears turn pink and...

Well, then they're holding hands

With one another.

 _In public._

Sherlock's not entirely certain what to do about that (or if he should be doing anything).

He looks at Molly from the corner of his eye and realises that she's doing the same to him- _She's always so ridiculously easy to read_. So he studies her, catalogues the new sensation of her hand in his. Her fingers are small. Strong. Calloused at the tips and along the heel, where she rests her wrist for traction. Her palm is small and almost dainty- His engulfs it. He feels like his is huge in comparison, a monster paw, and it's ludicrous but the thought makes him smile.

Molly looks at him askance and the smile grows, even as he pulls her closer to him.

For his Little Thing's things are all little, he thinks, and then wonders if he's sustained some sort of head injury because that thought it ridiculous and yet oddly... welcome. Funny. _Fond_. At this he lets out a puff of laughter and when Molly looks at him askance once again he pulls her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

"Good?" she asks, her voice a little timid.

"Good," he nods. Pulls her a little closer. "Little Things are good."

And with that they make for Baker Street and the comforts of home...


	16. Affinities

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **#** **AFFINITIES**

* * *

She sees them, of course she does. That first night, after they've kissed and confessed and whispered together in the dark. After they've loved and touched and tired one another out, happy to be finally, finally able to admit how they feel...

She sees the scars across his shoulders, ghostly and white in the light form the lamps outside.

They scratch and slide over one shoulder-blade, two ribs. He has a matching set, much smaller, on the other side of his back, a white-blue scrawl which hooks around the back of his neck and disappears under his hairline...

Before she stops to think her fingers find them, touch them, and he winces. Starts back.

Her first instinct is to apologize, to ask whether they still pain him, but of course common sense tells her that they do not.

They're far too old for that.

"Don't..." she hears, and "it's not what you think..." she hears and finally, "It was a long time ago, Molly."

She lets him turn away, knowing-trusting- that it's what he needs to do right now. As if to underline this, he reaches one hand out and grasps her wrist, neither pulling her closer nor pushing her away. Just squeezing her flesh, taking her pulse, she belatedly realizes.

When he finally looks at her, his eyes are wide and dark.

"You didn't have those before your fall," she says softly, and it's true. He didn't.

She would have had to catalogue them when she did his supposed autopsy.

He huffs in a breath; His shoulders tense, release, and then he's pulling her to him, pulling them both down into the bed. He presses a kiss to her crown.

"They came after," he says. "After my fall... After I took apart Moriarty's network..." Another kiss, pressed to her hair. "There was a man named Marpuissis," he says. "He... I became involved in his business. He didn't thank me for it." A puff of laughter, slightly hopeless. "The marks you see are the result," he tells her. "I nearly bled to death, before Mycroft found me. I- The man working on me had a crow-bar."

Molly can't help it: she draws in a sharp, horrified breath.

"I don't- it wasn't-" He stops and starts, unsure. Uncomfortable. "I shouldn't have told you," he says eventually, arms tightening around her. "It's not-"

"It is." Molly's not entirely sure what she's agreeing to, but she knows that she has to say that. She can't bear the thought of him feeling the need to keep such things to himself. She can't bear the thought of his shouldering such a burden alone.

"Whatever you want to tell me," she says quietly, "you tell me, Sherlock."

She feels him go very intent, there in her arms.

The air suddenly feels very still.

"Even if it hurts you?" He asks quietly, his voice muffled by her hair. (He's buried his nose in her neck, arms tightening around her waist.)

"Even if," she answers, her voice certain. "Whatever you want to tell me, tell me, Sherlock. Don't keep something bottled up inside in the name of protecting me." And she twists in his arms. Looks at him in the near dark.

She presses a kiss to his lips and they both breathe out in time.

"And if I'm not ready?" He asks, and this time his voice is so quiet, so uncertain.

Molly looks at him, and his expression seems... haunted, somehow.

"When you're ready, then you're ready," she says quietly. A small smile. A kiss pressed to his sternum. "And when you're not ready, well... I suppose I can wait." She smiles up at him, trying to lighten the mood, but as she does he pulls her closer. Holds her tighter.

"Oh but I do love you," he murmurs, and (as it had every time he's said it since he arrived back from Sherrinford, it makes Molly blush to hear it.)

"I love you too," she murmurs, kissing him again. Snuggling into him again.

She's never, ever going to get tired of being able to tell him that, she thinks.

* * *

In the days, and weeks, and months to come other things will come out, other secrets. Other scars. They've both of them lived a life, and they've both of them things they carry with them. They've both got their stories, hidden inside their skin.

But the simple act of speaking them aloud, of telling them to one another... That will prove truly healing.

I love you, Molly Hooper, he will tell her.

I love you too, Sherlock Holmes, she will murmur back...


End file.
